The Ball
by California gal
Summary: A little story about something that could have happened...


This short (for me) story popped into my mind as a speculation of something that could have happened in the past, given that Lo

This short (for me) story popped into my mind as a speculation of something that _could_ have happened in the past, given that Lord John Roxton and Marguerite Krux both lived in or near London, and possibly traveled in the same society

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Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attentions of officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to her mother's ear.

"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill."

"Miss Krux, you _will_ attend the ball. Every member of your level is required to attend."

"But I do not like balls!"

Mrs. Ashcroft's well-formed brows lifted. "And how would you know that, girl? You have never attended one!"

Behind the headmistress, Miss Waldon, Mrs. Ashcroft's spinster cousin and partner, leaned forward slightly. "Marguerite, of all people, I should think you would have a double reason for wishing to participate. After all, the charity is for orphans. And, importantly, you will be put in the presence of some of England's finest, most eligible young men. Since you do not have the normal means"

Miss Waldon's words trailed off as her cousin shot her a glance. Marguerite did not need to hear the rest of what the stout lady might have said. She knew the import. All the other girls of her age at this establishment had families and friends through whom they would be put in contact with the "finest, most eligible young men" who were of an age to start looking for a suitable life mate. Mrs. Ashcroft undoubtedly shared her cousin's opinion, but she was more circumspect. One did not need to put into words what everyone knew as a fact, especially to the face of the person involved.

A few years ago Marguerite had crouched on the staircase and watched an earlier level of exquisitely garbed seventeen-year-olds depart for this annual affair, and at that time, she had longed to be able to be among that group, laughing and talking excitedly about the people they would meet, the music they would hear. In the time since, however, she had began to realize that finding and making the "perfect" match and becoming the ornament on some gentleman's arm, his trophy, was not what she wanted for her life.

Mrs. Ashcroft spoke sternly. "There will be no more arguments, Marguerite. You have two weeks to select your gown. You will attend. The money you raise will go to support unfortunate orphans who did not have the advantages you had."

Advantages! Marguerite stared at the reflection in the cheval mirror, remembering that encounter, and saw the almost too thin young woman with the mass of dark hair and great gray eyes staring back at her. Advantages? Being abandoned and unwanted was an advantage? Of course, Mrs. Ashcroft had been referring to the substantial trust fund that had supported Marguerite Krux in one of London's finest boarding schools. It mattered not to Mrs. Ashcroft and Miss Waldon that Marguerite Krux remained in the school during summers and other holidays while the rest of the pupils went to their homes and families; they were paid extra to take care of the girl.

Her lips curved in a slight smile as she heard commotion out in the hallway beyond her closed and locked door. Soon someone would tap on that door and tell her to hurry, that the vehicles were waiting. She had deliberately refused assistance from any of the school's servants in her preparation, just as she had not shown anyone else the gown she had selected. All the other girls had modeled and paraded in their glorious garb and talked about how they would fashion their hair, which jewels they would wear to enhance their appearance. Marguerite had kept to herself.

The young lady in the mirror wore a dark brown moire of a severe cut, so severe that the clerk in the store had inquired solicitously if the family was in mourning. Brown was the absolute worst color she could wear, and Marguerite knew it. She had considered black, but knew that that darkest of colors only served to enhance the red highlights in her hair and cause her eyes to appear even more silver.

She had braided that hair, pulling strands severely tight from her forehead and temples, and wrapped the braids in a heavy over-weighted crown about her head. No earrings, no necklace, no rings–no ornamentation of any sort decorated her dress or skin. She looked like, she decided with satisfaction, a poor relation, possibly a stern governess. Perfect. None of England's finest, most eligible young men would pay her the slightest attention, and that was the way she wanted it. Next week she would contact Pomeroy and instruct him to transmit a cheque to the orphanage.

"Marguerite!" The expected sharp rap came on the door and she recognized Emily's voice. "Come on! Hurry! It's time to go!"

The spring evening would be cool, so Marguerite draped the light cloak around her shoulders, pulling the hood up over her head. No one would pay her any mind. They usually didn't–unless she had just received her allowance and they thought she might buy them a treat. Dousing the lamp, she waited until all sounds faded in the upper hallway outside her door, then opened it and hurried down the stairs.

All through the ride to the grand hotel where the ball was being held, her companions chattered. Chattered and chattered. Marguerite wanted to tell them to shut up. Didn't they realize that they were about to be put on display like so much breeding stock? The young men and the parents of those young men would be sizing them up, discussing their heritage, their connections, deciding just how advantageous a match it would be between two families. Attraction and love might not play into it at all.

Marguerite kept her silence, though she wanted very much to rail at her companions, to make them see the light. However, she had tried that on past occasions and had received scorn and insults. Each believed she had but one lot in life, and that was to be a dutiful wife and attentive mother, to run her husband's household smoothly–and live off his charity. 

Over the years she and her classmates had been invited to several homes, friends of Mrs. Ashcroft, so that they might witness firsthand the way a "lady" should behave, to take tea and gossip and talk about fashion. Marguerite had paid close attention to their hostesses, and she usually saw what she expected to see: a repressed individual without a will, a life, or a mind of her own. Everything depended upon the whim of her husband. She could not walk away, even if she desired to, because she would lose absolutely everything, even her children. In the meanwhile, her husband could have mistresses, spend profligately (even money that belonged originally to his wife), abuse the children

That was not the life Marguerite Krux wanted for herself. She might marry. Indeed, she really thought she would. But it would be only for love. And she would _not_ relinquish control of her own fortune. There were things she wanted to do first, however. Living in Paris was a long-held dream. Though she had never visited that fabled city, she had read about it, and she longed for the chance to live there. The money she would receive upon her eighteenth birthday would provide a decent living, but she was not averse to working. Indeed, she rather looked forward to some sort of occupation, a chance to meet people and enjoy a real life.

As well, she hoped to continue her education. She loved learning. She had a proficiency for language that baffled the most expert tutors who came to the school. So far she had mastered seven different languages and expected to learn more. Strangely, she did not need to study textbooks or even take lessons. After hearing some conversation in another language, she usually was able to pick it up almost instantly. This talent both thrilled and frightened her at times. Marguerite planned to return to England in a few years and enter Oxford, to study language and other subjects. Learning did not scare her at all.

Her classmates knew and cared only that they were going to a fancy dress ball, where young men would bid for their company on the dance floor, the money going to the charity that supported an orphanage. They only knew that the Cecils, the Havershams, the Roxtons, and countless other prominent families would be in attendance. Emily sighed noisily over the prospect of being Lady something or other, as though that title could bring her infinite happiness. Alma was certain she could attract a duke, or perhaps higher. Was it possible any member of the royal family would be in attendance? The future beyond the day they repeated the vow to love, honor and _obey_ did not enter their minds.

Finally the carriage drew up in front of the hotel, behind numerous other vehicles whose occupants had just dismounted and were entering the edifice. Miss Waldon, who had been in their carriage, alighted first and offered some last minute strictures to the over-excited students, but little of her words was heard.

Inside the grand hotel–the finest Marguerite had ever witnessed; she was entranced by the glitter of the chandeliers, the gilt in the trimming–they were led toward the ballroom, and just before entering several maidservants helped them with their wraps. Immediately Marguerite was the center of attention.

"Good heavens, Marg!" Emily cried. "What have you done?"

Marguerite looked at the girl who might be considered her closest friend; Emily had spent a few holidays at the school with her, but only because her father was in the consular service and often her parents were living in a foreign country at the time. "I have no idea what you mean."

Irma touched Emily's arm. "Oh, give it up, Em. It's no use. You know Marguerite will always do what she can to call attention to herself."

Marguerite was about to respond to that with a hot denial, but Mrs. Ashcroft was tut-tutting at them to hurry, hurry. The young ladies needed to be in their places before the remaining guests arrived. The headmistress spotted Marguerite, her eyes widened and her lips tightened, but she said nothing. Too late now.

For just half a moment, as they entered the ballroom, Marguerite regretted her decision. Crystal and gold glittered everywhere; the polished floor was as gleaming as ice. Velvet festoons draped over tall windows–it was paradise. To think about whirling about this floor She quickly put the ideas from her mind. One day she would dance at such an extravaganza, but it would not be while regarded as a breeding cow; it would be on her terms.

Perhaps fifty other young women were already in the ballroom, seated in chairs placed in a half circle in front of the orchestra's dais. Marguerite felt their stares, but she kept her own gaze fixed straight ahead. Mrs. Ashcroft led them to a bank of empty chairs and bade them all be seated. After a few moments, a thin, white haired gentleman approached, followed by a nervous young man carrying a basket.

"Ah, such a display of feminine pulchritude," the older man chortled, rubbing his hands together. His glance hesitated only slightly when it came to the young woman in the drab brown dress, and he looked quickly at Mrs. Ashcroft before continuing. "I am Mr. Hamilton-Peck, the chairman of the charitable society. I know all of you are going to have a splendid time, and we will amass quite a tidy sum for the poor orphans. Not to mention that there will be some very lucky young men in attendance today. Now, Mr. Bolton will give each of you a velvet pouch. When a gentleman requests the favor of a turn about the dance floor with you, he will be required to make a donation. Place the sum in the pouch. At the end of the evening, you may return the filled pouch to Mr. Bolton."

"No need to give one to Marguerite," Irma whispered, drawing giggles from her nearby companions, and a reproving stare from Miss Waldon. 

Marguerite slipped the loop over her wrist, and almost smiled as she noticed the bag was fabricated of brown velvet. Her gown was really the only one it coordinated with. Behind her, the orchestra began to play softly as guests began to arrive, a footman announcing each arrival in stentorian tones. Lord and Lady this, the Duke and Duchess of that, the Earl of whatever.

Marguerite watched and listened with interest, but her attention was focused not on the young bucks accompanying their parents, but the parents themselves, especially the older men who arrived alone. Chances were they were widowers. It had occurred to Marguerite that a fine way to increase her financial assets would be to one day wed a much older man who would soon leave her in excellent fiscal condition. Few of these older men would be dancing tonight, but she could at least make note for future reference. In just a few months she would be eighteen and legally free to begin leading the life she had long dreamed of. She could learn to love a rich old man as easily as a wealthy young one!

Her attention having wandered for a moment, Marguerite noticed the murmur of her companions' voices, and she looked up toward the entryway. "Lord and Lady Roxton," the footman announced grandiosely. "The Honorable William Roxton. The Honorable John Roxton."

Marguerite almost giggled, and stifled it by placing her gloved hand over her mouth and coughing a little. Easy to see why her classmates and the girls from the other establishments were excited. Of all of the young men who had entered thus far, these were easily the most attractive. The Roxton brothers–although, she reflected, they did not much resemble brothers. One was fair, the other dark.

Which was which, she mused, watching them as they greeted old friends. The blond son eagerly shook the hand of a man Marguerite thought she had heard introduced as a duke or something in a previous announcement, while the dark son stood back, gazing idly, and with obvious boredom, around the rapidly filling ballroom. His eyes barely skimmed over the young women so avidly watching him, but he knew, Marguerite decided. He knew he was under scrutiny and the object of many admiring gazes.

"Miss Waldon," Emily whispered loudly. "Which one is William?"

Miss Waldon moved closer. "The fair one. He's the elder and in line for the title. Don't waste your time on John. He's a scamp."

Which was exactly the wrong thing to say, Marguerite reflected, glancing at the expressions on the faces of the young women. Their eyes literally glowed with anticipation. A scamp! In their protected young lives, they had never viewed such a man, let alone danced with one.

John Roxton wandered away from his parents, after a word to his mother, from whom he obviously gained his darkness, while his brother was the image of their father. Likely William would lose his hair one day too; but not John. His thick dark locks were a trifle too long, and Marguerite could see, even from this distance, the fond and resigned disapproval of his mother as he strolled over to join a group of young men, where he was greeted with great warmth.

A scamp indeed, Marguerite mused. Rogue was more like it. An arrogant rogue. Though she really knew little about men, it did not take great experience to recognize the strut in his stride, the lift of his chin. This was a younger son who did not care that he was not the heir. Likely he reveled in it and the freedom it afforded him.

Mr. Hamilton-Peck climbed up on the dais behind the girls, and made his announcement, stating the rules. No dances without a donation. The usual strictures against addressing a young woman without a proper introduction were relaxed tonight, but that did not mean that the gentlemen were to be anything less than gentlemen. Don't forget, Mr. Hamilton-Peck warned with a tight smile, these young ladies also had fathers and brothers who would not take a slight lightly.

"All except Marguerite," Irma whispered loudly. "But I doubt if anyone is going to bother her in that get-up."

And she was right. Marguerite and three other rather plain young women were left sitting as the eager young men sought partners, handing over their coins. Marguerite was amused to notice that William Roxton had chosen a pretty young woman from another school all the while Irma had fluttered her lashes in his direction as he approached. By the way William and his choice began chatting, Marguerite suspected they had previous acquaintance.

She noticed also that the Honorable John Roxton had not made a choice. He was leaning against the far wall, watching the couples on the floor with that disinterested expression on his handsome face. She saw Lady Roxton approach her son and speak to him for a few minutes, but if she was urging him to dance, she failed. 

What a handsome woman, Marguerite reflected. Her dark hair contained streaks of gray, but her face was virtually unlined, and she moved with the grace and spirit of a much younger woman. John Roxton likely inherited more than just his coloring from his mother, and perhaps Lady Roxton recognized that rebel streak. Likely she loved both sons, but the younger was probably her favorite

With a start, Marguerite realized that she had been staring directly at that younger Roxton son, and now he was staring back at her, lips in what seemed to be that perpetually amused smile. With willpower she retained her gaze for a long moment, then slowly drew it away, and carefully studied an ornate tapestry on a wall.

The next time she glanced toward where John Roxton had been loitering, he was not in sight, but she quickly spotted him, finally on the dance floor, a pretty auburn-haired girl in his arms. The girl was smiling her most charming smile and chattering away, but she was drawing only perfunctory interest from her partner. He seemed to dance well enough, but obviously was not comfortable in such circumstances. As soon as the music ended, he bowed to the girl and deserted her, casting a wide grin toward his mother as he strolled toward the table bearing refreshments. Lady Roxton only smiled and shook her head.

Marguerite released the long breath she had been holding. What would it be like, she wondered, to have a parent who loved you as much as Lady Roxton obviously adored her sons. Just now William had brought over the young lady with whom he had shared several sets, and appeared to be introducing her to his titled parents. Lady Roxton hooked her slender arm through her elder son's, and smiled warmly at the girl, who was apparently invited to join them as they all sat down on nearby chairs.

Without thought, Marguerite turned her head and looked toward the refreshment tables. She nearly jumped as the tall form of a man loomed so near her, and she gazed up into the smiling brown eyes. Or were they green?

"Miss," he began, holding out a hand.

"Excuse me!" Marguerite leaped to her feet and fled toward the stairway, not pausing until she had reached the ladies' powder room at the top of those stairs.

Thankfully, that room was unoccupied except for the maid, who asked if she needed assistance. Marguerite declined, and sat on a chair in the corner, taking deep breaths. What in the world had been his intent? Surely not to ask for a dance! She could see her image in the mirror. Her purpose had been achieved; she looked positively awful. More than likely, she decided, he was doing it on a bet, on a dare. For some fun. Then he and some friends would have had a jolly laugh later.

But those eyes! The warmth in those eyes! It was almost as though–as though he was seeing through her skull, right into her brain, knowing her every thought. He knew she had deliberately attempted to disguise her looks, and he knew why! 

Her thoughts were interrupted as a group of giggling, chattering young women entered, Emily among them. Her friend rushed to her. "Marguerite, isn't this just the most glorious fun?"

Marguerite was saved from a response by Irma, who demanded to know of the young lady who had been receiving William Roxton's attention just what was happening. "Did he invite you to their home? I've heard the Roxton estate is fabulous!"

The girl smiled shyly. "Not yet. Mr. Roxton–William–is going on an African adventure with his brother in a few weeks. But upon his return" Her fair cheeks flamed into roses.

"Oh, you are so lucky!" Another cried. "William is so handsome. But John Oh, I'd die if he requested me to dance with him."

"John Roxton is a scamp," Emily reiterated what their elder had told them.

"I don't care," Irma asserted. "He may be the younger son, but I'd give up all my dreams of a title for him. He has the most wonderful blue eyes!"

"They're green!" The words leaped from Marguerite's lips, and she instantly regretted them as all turned toward her.

"And how would you know?" Irma demanded. "You've been planted on that chair all night."

"Mr. Roxton came close enough once," she replied, getting to her feet. She did not want to return to the ballroom, but neither did she wish to remain here and talk about the Roxton brothers.

"Probably to see what sort of big brown insect was occupying that chair," Irma smirked.

"That's not nice," Emily defended. "You know that if Marguerite had chosen, she would have been the belle of the ball. We should be grateful she decided to–to do what she did. No matter what her reason."

Marguerite fled the room as rapidly as she had earlier rushed from the ballroom. Lingering on the stairs, she watched the dancers cavorting in a sprightly two-step. William was dancing with a girl from Marguerite's school, but his eyes kept straying toward the staircase, though not seeing the harshly-garbed woman there, obviously wishing his choice would reappear. John was in conversation with his father and several other men, his back to the staircase.

Feeling secure, Marguerite descended all the way and crossed to the tables, where she secured a crystal cup of punch along with several sweet biscuits on a delicate plate, then returned to the chairs, this time at the opposite end of the row though. She wanted to avoid any contact with John Roxton as long as possible. But what a silly thought! He would not come looking for her!

For a while she sipped the sweet punch and nibbled on the sweets, watching the dancers, a couple of times stopping herself from unconsciously tapping her toes or swaying with the music. She wanted no one to believe she regretted her actions, which now she was, just a little. Suppose Emily had been right. Suppose she had donned a blue gown–she had been told it was an excellent color for her–a gown cut low over her bosom, trimmed in lace, accenting her slim body and maturing breasts. Suppose she had put on the sapphire necklace she bought for herself as a Christmas gift last year, and the matching earrings. And if she had piled her shiny dark hair high, decorated with combs and flowers

A soft sigh slipped between her lips as she imagined herself sought after by every man in the room. The velvet pouch would have become too heavy to wear gracefully on her wrist. She would have had to seek out Mr. Hamilton-Peck several times to empty it. She would have danced gaily with every man in the room–save one. Every time he approached, she would have snubbed him. The green eyes would have lost their perpetual mocking glee and–

This time the sigh that escaped was long and melancholy. The orchestra behind her had begun to play her very favorite, "Tales of the Vienna Woods," by Strauss. When Mr. André came to the school to give the weekly dancing lessons to the girls, this was the tune always played on the Victrola as he demonstrated the waltz. She had danced to it with Emily many times, each of them always imagining their partner was instead a handsome man, perhaps even one of the queen's grandsons

A movement at the edge of her vision caused Marguerite to pull her attention away from the couples who were swinging into the graceful dance. Her heart seemed to stop dead for a moment. He was striding toward her purposefully, one hand dipping into his trouser pocket. She saw a glint of silver as he withdrew the hand and closed his fist around them.

Panicking, Marguerite jumped to her feet, ready to flee straight out the front doors if necessary. Of all things, she did not want that man's hand at her waist, and above all, not the closeness required for the dance. She was on the verge of running when abruptly a portly man stepped in front of Roxton, causing the him to politely halt. The older one drew a younger man with him, by resemblance certainly his son. Introductions were being made.

She took advantage of the reprieve to escape, back up the stairs to the powder room, ignoring again the bemused maid, and remained there until Emily sought her out to say that they were leaving. After casually inquiring whether all the other guests had departed and receiving an affirmative reply, Marguerite followed her friend to the waiting carriage.

The strains of "Tales of the Vienna Woods," pervaded her brain, and Marguerite frowned, staring down at the open book on her lap. She had read _Pride and Prejudice_ many times, but not since being stranded on the plateau. Veronica had told her it was a favorite of her mother's, and that she herself had read it often. Never before, however, had the passages relating to the ball Mr. Bingley was to give stirred such vivid memories–never so much so that she could actually hear the music!

She looked around. She had not heard Veronica and Malone leave, nor had she heard Lord John Roxton come up from the sleeping area where she knew he had been tending to his beloved pistols. He was standing by the record-player, where the disc was now spinning, his gaze steadily on her. For about the thousandth time, she had that sensation that he was reading her thoughts. A smile was in his eyes, but it was not a mocking smile. Slowly he crossed the floor, and bowed in a formal manner.

"May I have this dance, Miss Krux?"

She stared at him for so long that a slight shadow began to creep into his gaze, and she realized he was wondering if she was going to refuse. Not this time. Putting the book aside, she rose and curtsied. "Of course, my lord."

"You know," he said softly, "I have not really cared for this song for many years. Suddenly it is beautiful again." He placed his hand softly at her waist, took her other hand, and they swung out onto the open area.

"Does the song conjure bad memories?" She did not want to ask, yet had to.

He frowned a little. "You know, I'm not really sure. It's just that for the longest time, every time I've heard it played, it's made me a little angry and sad. As though it represented–I'm not sure. Something lost."

It was the same for me, she wanted to say. Only perhaps she had known why the song stirred a deep sadness in her, thoughts of what might have been, if only she had not lost her courage. "I'm glad you like it again," she said, smiling into his eyes.

"Right now it's my favorite," he grinned, green eyes taking on that familiar gleam.


End file.
